


in the summer silence

by iridescent_blue



Series: How to Be a Human Being [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: As it should be, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Negative Thoughts, Neil Josten as Abram, Pre-Canon, Slight Canon Divergence, andrew meets neil on the run in columbia a few years before canon, dont break into warehouses they probably have asbestos in them, dont do like anything they do in this fic, flirting through apocalypse speculation, like one implied blowjob aight?, old flame? kind of?, probably ooc but also theyre younger so artistic license suck my ass, so of course theres gonna be negative self talk and shit its teenage andrew, some good ol fashioned making out, teenagers n shit, tildas alive in this one im sorry shes only mentioned in scathing remarks, unbetaed and unedited because i am a fool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25178347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescent_blue/pseuds/iridescent_blue
Summary: Andrew hates Columbia. The summers are hot like California, but that’s where the similarities end. South Carolina summers are sticky and humid, worming their way under his skin and making him feel like a melting popsicle, forgotten on the sidewalk.Instead of holing himself up with two pitiful addicts, Andrew walks through Columbia, looking for places to be. He avoids anywhere busy, walking through downtown once to orient himself and never again, and instead finds empty, abandoned places. Buildings with the locks long-rusted through but untouched, weeds growing in the cracks of the floor and ivy climbing up the walls.And once, an interesting boy.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Series: How to Be a Human Being [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856641
Comments: 40
Kudos: 321





	1. my heart strings broke and it was me

**Author's Note:**

> Title (and referenced lyrics) from Mama's Gun by Glass Animals.
> 
> Hi friends hi I'm back with more bullshit! This one has been kicking around in my head for months now and I figured it was best to get it out. Neil's POV coming... sometime in the future that's gonna be chapter two.
> 
> Anyways it's 1:50 a.m. this is unbetaed because again, i am a fool and filled with hubris. 
> 
> have fun.
> 
> best enjoyed while listening to Mama's Gun by Glass Animals (or directly before/after, i know its super hard for me to read and listen to music)

_Did you say something? What’d you say?_

_Was that your voice or was that me?_

Andrew hates Columbia. The summers are hot like California, but that’s where the similarities end. South Carolina summers are sticky and humid, worming their way under his skin and making him feel like a melting popsicle, forgotten on the sidewalk. 

Unfortunately, staying inside, away from the summer sun, is worse. If Tilda’s not higher than a kite, she’s cursing out Aaron’s name and finding things of his to sell for another hit. Sometimes she mistakes Andrew for Aaron in a haze of Oxy and coke and hits him. Whatever. It’s not like she’ll be around much longer. Andrew would get rid of her now, but setting up life insurance takes time and he is not about to leave his little brother (he checked the birth records) with nothing. 

So instead of holing himself up with two pitiful addicts, Andrew walks through Columbia, looking for places to be. He avoids anywhere busy, walking through downtown once to orient himself and never again, and instead finds empty, abandoned places. Buildings with the locks long-rusted through but untouched, weeds growing in the cracks of the floor and ivy climbing up the walls. 

His favorite places are the warehouses on the edge of the city. They’re old enough that the glass in the windows is starting to warp and they’re filled with old machinery that the companies didn’t bother to pay to remove. Andrew spends hours there, warily exploring, cheap knife in hand in case he runs into a deal in progress or some violent squatter.

Sometimes, in stuffy offices behind rusty locks, he finds mementos left behind. A picture of a smiling family here, a sticky note with an inside joke written on it there, proof that these run-down places used to be bustling and full of people with their own lives. Now, they’re empty. Like Andrew, in a way.

The roofs are his favorite part. They’re easily accessed via rusty fire escapes and completely flat, allowing Andrew to rest his chin on the edge of the building and gaze down without actually having to worry about sliding off.

It isn’t much, but it beats juvie and being around Aaron, and Andrew will take what he can get. He wastes hours in the warehouses, lies down on the rooftops, lets himself sweat while he watches the clouds go by. 

Andrew will willingly admit that he is good at two things: remembering and observing. They go hand-in-hand, really. After only about a month of living with his womb-mate and disgrace of a mother, he can tell when they’re itching for a fix and when Tilda is itching to hit her kid. Sometimes Andrew wonders if she even knows she has two kids living in her house, or if she’s too high to notice that Aaron has a clone. It doesn’t seem to matter much to her, anyway.

But he’s not inside that house right now, so he doesn’t worry about it. He’s on his way to his favorite warehouse, where the roof is still fairly secure so he only has to think about falling to his death off the side, rather than giving the building an impromptu skylight. 

He gets to the back door and _huh,_ the lock has been meticulously put back into place, but the chain has shifted from the last time he left it. That’s never happened before, and he’s visited this warehouse regularly for three weeks now. 

It’s a bad idea but Andrew is hopelessly self-destructive, so he jimmies the lock and opens the door as quietly as he can. Years of sneaking downstairs in foster homes to eat for the first time in days have trained him to walk near-silently, and the concrete floor eliminates the worry of wood creaking. 

Quiet as a ghost, Andrew slips through the maze of abandoned conveyor belts and storage racks. He hears movement deeper in the building, so he bypasses access to the roof in the hopes of finding someone. 

In one of the old offices, where Andrew found notes between two employees who were _definitely_ cheating with each other, Andrew finds him. He’s expecting someone older, maybe an addict looking for a more secure place to sleep, but this guy is just a kid. He can’t be older than Andrew, he’s so small and obviously still growing into his legs. He’s crouched over a duffel bag, rummaging through it, and Andrew can’t see his face but he knows a cheap dye-job anywhere. The damage in this kid’s mousy brown hair is fooling no one. Andrew wants nothing more than to tap the kid on his shoulder and get some answers, but that would mean getting close to him and Tilda would take her anger out on Aaron if Andrew came home with a bill from the ER.

Andrew’s patient. So he stands in the doorway and waits. It doesn’t take long. The kid finishes up doing _whatever_ with his duffel bag and straightens up. He turns around and to his credit, doesn’t make a sound when he sees Andrew. He’s just a little taller than Andrew, with cold gray eyes, and he flinches back into the corner, hands coming up to protect himself.

“Who sent you?” Mystery-boy asks. Oh, isn’t that interesting? Someone must be on the run. But Andrew’s curious, so he indulges the kid.

“No one. I’ve been coming here for the past month, which begs the question, what are you doing here?” Andrew leans against the doorframe, arching an eyebrow. When the kid doesn’t answer, just hardening his fighting stance, Andrew says, “I do not know who you are, I do not care, I’m not working for anybody. As far as people go, I am comically unimportant.”

The kid’s shoulders sag a bit. _Victory._ Maybe there is something interesting in Columbia, after all. Still, he has that haunted look in his eyes, one Andrew has seen too many times before. It’s not enough sleep and not enough food and not enough love. 

“My mom’s going to be back soon. You need to go,” the kid says, a little bit reluctantly. Andrew looks around the office and _hey,_ there are two sleeping bags, still in stuff sacks, as well as a second duffel tucked into the corner.

Andrew doesn’t want to cause this kid any more trouble, so he tamps down his curiosity and says, “Okay.” Christ, this kid does not get listened to often, by the way that he perks up.

Andrew turns to leave when the guy speaks. “You can come back tomorrow afternoon. My mom’s going to be out all day.” He has a nice voice, too soft and sweet for a person so obviously on the run. 

Andrew shrugs. “See you then, mystery boy.”

“It’s Chris.”

_Oh._ A name. Probably fake, but it’s something. Only fair if Andrew gives his in return. He gestures to himself, saying, “Andrew. See you tomorrow, Chris.”

Oh, well. There are some parks in Columbia that aren’t overrun with screaming kids. Plus, Andrew has something to do tomorrow. 

He repositions the lock on the way out. 

Aaron sneaks out at three in the morning, probably to pick up. It doesn’t matter, as long as he makes it home. Just a few more months, then he can get Aaron clean. 

The next day, Andrew wastes time in the morning. He takes some of Tilda’s money and gets groceries. Just the basics, like boxed mac and cheese and premade tomato sauce, but it beats having Tilda forget that she has two teenagers in her house. Oh, well. It’s not like Aaron has much of an appetite.

The afternoon rolls around and today, there is no breeze to wick some of the sweat away from Andrew’s skin. Even the bugs seem to hang in the air, the humidity sticky like amber. Walking downtown is a chore, the asphalt radiating heat up onto Andrew’s exposed calves, but he made a promise. 

Chris is waiting for him, perched on an old conveyor belt, face tilted up into the light. Andrew pauses for a moment, taking in the scene before him. Chris isn’t dressed in anything special, his face still holds some baby fat, just like Andrew, but he’s _breathtaking._

It took some very, _very_ awkward conversations and… encounters in juvie for Andrew to get comfortable with the idea of finding a man attractive, but Andrew’s made it this far. His therapist there was almost tolerable and preached “reclaiming control” over things that he had been shamed for.

Chris blinks his eyes open and looks at Andrew. A shy smile makes its way onto his face. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he says, timid. 

Great. On top of being a runaway, he’s got abandonment issues. “I am not one to break promises.”

Chris just hops off the conveyor belt. “My mom said she’d be back here around six, so I have to be back by five,” he says, matter of fact. “What do you want to do?”

“What I always do.”

“And that is?”

“Nothing.”

Chris cocks his head, considering. “Okay,” he says at last. “Where do you wanna go do nothing?”

Hm. Where _does_ Andrew want to go? After a moment’s consideration, he responds. “The roof next door.” It means Andrew won’t have to reveal where he lives, and Chris can keep an eye out for his mom if she comes back early. Also, Andrew hates picking that roof’s lock and judging by Chris’s general demeanor, he probably has more experience than Andrew. “Do you have lockpicks?”

Wrong fucking question. Chris immediately shuts down, wary once more. “Why do you want to know?” _Shit._

“That’s a yes, then,” Andrew drawls. “The door to the roof is stubborn and breaking the lock takes more effort than I am willing to expend.”

Chris gets his lockpicks.

They’re quiet on their way to the roof, a silent agreement to let themselves get situated with each other’s presence before they start talking. Chris leans back against a busted air conditioning vent while Andrew kicks his feet over the side of the building, bracing himself back on his hands and relishing in the sting of gravel in his palms. Chris stays quiet, probably assuming that Andrew is going to make the first move. Alright. Fine. 

“How do you think the world is going to end?” Andrew asks casually like he’s made a comment on the weather. 

Chris only takes a moment to answer. “Anarchy, probably. What do you think?”

Andrew has a million different ways that the world has ended in his head. Fortunately, most are improbable. “Nuclear warfare. We barely avoided it once, we’re not going to get that lucky again.” 

Chris hums. “Who would start it, in your opinion?”

The psychology of war has interested Andrew since he started trying to figure out _why_ people liked to hurt other people, so he’s done a near-embarrassing amount of research into the source of armed conflict. “Some Middle-Eastern country would get in a dispute with another country, the United States would step in to “de-escalate,” Andrew makes air quotes with his fingers, “and would just end up dragging in other major military powers until the original war is a proxy war and America finds a logical excuse to bomb the shit out of Russia or China.”

Chris hums again. “You’ve thought about this a lot,” he says, not accusing, just observing. Andrew nods. 

They sit like that, content to be surrounded in their silence, Andrew’s ratty sneakers gently thumping on the side of the building. A flock of birds goes by at one point, coming to rest on a different roof. The sun beats down on them, and finally, Chris speaks.

“I’m only going to be here for a few weeks, maybe less.” His voice cracks a little bit.

“Bold of you to assume I care.”

“I didn’t. I just thought you deserved to know.”

That’s a first. No one’s ever actually _told_ Andrew that he deserves honesty. If it weren’t so depressing, it would be funny, how much Andrew wants to be told that he deserves good things, things like honesty and respect and maybe, just maybe, some love. 

Andrew stays quiet and just watches the sun make its way across the sky, too-bright, and honey-slow. Chris sits with him until Andrew’s shitty watch beeps, alerting him that it’s five o’clock. 

Before Chris slips inside of the warehouse, he turns to Andrew, hope in his eyes. “Same time tomorrow?”

Andrew is too hopeless to do anything but nod. 

The next day, they end up on the roof of a different warehouse, where Chris drags a rusty pipe across the floors, drawing a meaningless pattern. They discuss the different reactions humanity could have to aliens showing up on Earth, and come to the conclusion that it would end in a one-sided war where humans would destroy themselves. Chris offers the fact that he knows French, and Andrew grants him the truth that he just got out of the foster system. 

The day after, they hop on a bus that takes them close to a forest. They end up sitting on some rocks, overlooking a small stream and plan for a zombie apocalypse. That’s when Andrew decides to ask what’s been nagging at him this entire time.

“Your name is not actually Chris.” Not up for debate. Not-Chris nods, hesitantly. “What is it, then?”

Not-Chris swallows, shifts back and forth like he’s bracing for a hit that’s never going to come. “If you need one,” he says, scratching at his arm, “call me Abram.”

_Hm._ Abram does suit him better than Chris. It’s only fair that Andrew offers something in return. “You can ask me something.” It’s strange, giving ground like this. But Abram has been nothing but respectful of Andrew’s boundaries, so it’s illogical to assume this will be where he oversteps. 

They sit in silence for a minute as Abram thinks. He’s the type of person, Andrew thinks, who makes the most of whatever he’s given. That’s why Andrew is so confused when Abram finally asks, “Why do you keep coming back?”

Why does he keep coming back? It’s not just that Abram’s presence is more tolerable than being in a house with Aaron and Tilda, it’s something more. Finally, Andrew settles on an answer. “You’re interesting. I can’t figure you out.”

“I’m not a math problem.”

“I’ll still solve you.” _Fuck,_ what is Andrew _doing?_ The last time he was even moderately interested in someone was when he was in juvie, and that was just because he was cooped-up and horny and there were no other options. 

“You’re welcome to try. I don’t think I could even do it at this point.” Abram bends down and lets his fingers dangle into the water, sighing at the coolness of the stream. 

Andrew leans back on his rock and watches the light filter through the leaves above him. 

If their pinkies overlap on the bus ride back, they don’t mention it. 

_In the summer silence, I was getting violent_

_In the summer silence, I was doing nothing_

Abram reveals, one day, two weeks later, sitting on the floor of the warehouse, that he is nobody. He is nothing but a ghost, and he will cease to exist once again when he leaves Columbia. His next stop with his mother is Germany, and they need new passports to get there, which is why they’re staying in South Carolina. 

In turn, Andrew tells him the plan he’s been crafting. How he’s going to get rid of Tilda and get Aaron sober, how Aaron is going to get the future he needs, nevermind Andrew. Abram stops him there.

“Do you not care about your future?” He asks, genuinely concerned. It’s… cute. 

“Bold of you to assume that I have a future to look forward to.” Andrew genuinely can’t imagine living past his teen years, and he’s carefully constructed his plan to work out for Aaron even if he dies in the crash with Tilda. 

Abram scoots closer to him. “Just because you can’t imagine it doesn’t mean it’s not there.” He’s so earnest, acting like there is hope for Andrew after all, like Andrew is more than just “destructive and joyless,” like Andrew _deserves_ a future. 

Fuck it. If the future is obsolete, then there’s no time like the present. 

“Can I kiss you. Yes or no.” Abram startles backward and the slimy parts of Andrew’s brain are already banging pots and pans together, screaming _look what you did, you fucked up the first good thing to happen in ages, you’re a freak, why would anyone want you-_

“Yes.” Abram’s voice snaps him out of his head. He’s leaning in, looking unsure of himself.

Before they can make contact, Andrew breathes out, “Don’t touch me.”

Abram slides his hands behind his back, closes his eyes, and whispers, “Okay.”

And Andrew jumps off the edge. 

Abram’s lips are chapped but his mouth is so, so, soft and he gasps a bit when Andrew runs his tongue along the seam of his lips. From there, they press hungrily into each other, Abram making up for what his hands can’t do by kissing Andrew like there is nothing else in the world. Andrew slips one hand around the back of Abram’s neck, running his hand into his damaged hair and Abram _keens_ as Andrew’s blunt nails scratch at his scalp.

Andrew pulls himself away, and Abram chases his lips. He blinks his eyes open and makes a noise of confusion and if Andrew had any doubts that this boy was pretty before, then they’re completely dispelled now. Abram’s lips are a little swollen and his cheeks are flushed and he’s breathing hard and Andrew wants more. 

In a split-second decision that is decidedly _not_ fueled by his brain, Andrew heaves himself into Neil’s lap, carefully positioning himself so that he won’t feel any of _Abram_ against his ass and send him spiraling. He reaches behind Abram and grabs his hands, placing them on his shoulders. “Here and up,” he mutters, before leaning forward to kiss Abram again, pulling their chests flush.

They stay like that, entwined, Abram’s hands in Andrew’s hair and Andrew’s hands constantly moving, barely separating to breathe, for what feels like hours but could’ve just been five minutes. 

And then Andrew’s watch goes off. And before he slips out the door of the warehouse, he pulls Abram in for one last kiss. 

_Play with me, my love, in the summer sun_

It should’ve been a one-time thing. It isn’t. More often than not, they spend their afternoons pressed up against a wall, learning how to make each other melt. Abram finds out that kissing Andrew’s neck causes a shiver that Andrew can’t suppress, then spends a solid hour reducing Andrew to incoherency. In return, Andrew drops to his knees and makes Abram _sob._

After one particularly tiring afternoon, Abram leans his head on Andrew’s shoulder. “My mom’s going to kill me if she finds out about this,” he says. Andrew runs a hand through his hair and Abram sighs, resting more of his weight onto Andrew’s side. It’s strangely comforting, like falling into bed after being upright for fourteen hours. 

“It is a good thing that there is no _this,_ then,” Andrew says, hating how it’s such a lie, hating how it makes his skin crawl to push something good away from himself, mentally cursing his existence as Abram pulls himself away. When he finally gets the energy to look Abram in the eye, he doesn’t see hatred. He doesn’t see betrayal.

He sees concern. “Andrew,” he says, _worried,_ “do you want to stop?” No one’s ever asked him that before. It’s always been _take, take, take_ and Andrew is blindsided by the fact that now he has a choice and for once, he doesn’t want to stop.

“No,” Andrew snaps. “It just can’t be more than physical.” He can’t let feelings get involved, not when there is an expiration date on whatever is going on, not when he knows Abram will be gone soon and he’ll be back to being alone. 

Abram taps Andrew’s hand that he’s subconsciously clenched into a fist, and Andrew forces his fingers to relax. “Okay,” he says, and leans close to Andrew. “Yes or no?” His fingers ghost over Andrew’s cheekbone, delicate, like Andrew is a piece of fine china he can’t afford to break. Jokes on him, Andrew crumbled to pieces a long time ago. 

He doesn’t have it in him to speak, so he just nods. Abram presses a kiss, feather-light, to his lips, and they linger there, letting themselves be soft. 

Like all good things, it comes to an end, and Abram takes back his spot by Andrew’s side, resting on his shoulder. They stay like that until Andrew has to leave, and this time, Abram kisses him with a sad smile on his face. 

When Andrew comes back the next day, there’s no sign of Abram. No duffle bags, no footprints through the dust of the warehouse, no nothing. Andrew is almost convinced he dreamed the past month and a half until he spots a scrap of notebook paper on the desk of the office of the former employee who was definitely cheating on his wife. 

It simply reads: _Thank you. You were amazing. I’ll try to come back._

And just like that, Andrew is alone again. Oh, well. At least he only has a few more days until Tilda’s gone and he can occupy all of his time with getting Aaron clean. 

Abram is a blip of calm in the storm of that year.

_I’ll be waiting in your favorite Cheshire grin_

One dead mother, one sober brother, four assault charges, two years of medication, and one shitty Exy team later, Andrew is on a trip with Kevin day to recruit one Neil no-middle-name Josten. The drugs make everything funny, even flying, and Andrew’s gut hurts from holding in his hysterical, anxious giggles. He’s roughly ten seconds from punching himself in the face, just to get his brain to shut up for a few minutes. 

Arizona, even in the springtime, is _hot._ It’s not like South Carolina, where the humidity sneaks under your skin through your pores, it’s a sun-bleached heat, the kind that dries your mouth out and strips the color off the shingles. 

Wymack didn’t allow Andrew or Kevin to meet with the new recruit, muttering something about “scaring him off.” He did mention that the kid’s coach had said he was a bit skittish, so Andrew had grabbed a racquet from a random locker and plunked himself down to wait. 

His foot won’t stop tapping, his heart won’t stop beating too fast, his smile _won’t get off of his fucking face_ and for the fifteenth time that day, Andrew is ready to end it all. 

_Oh._ There it is, telltale sounds of an argument. Well. At least this kid will be more interesting than Janie, who Andrew found to be unbearably tame and shy. 

The door to the locker room bursts open and Andrew thanks whatever god Renee prays to that these drugs make him _fast_ because before he knows it, he’s slamming the head of the racquet into this poor kid’s stomach and sending him to the ground with a pained wheeze.

Wymack steps through the door behind the kid who must be Neil and huffs. He crosses his arms, and Andrew’s manic brain is rearing for a fight. “God damn it, Minyard.” Andrew pastes on his most sardonic smile and drops the racquet, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

It would be a stretch to call anyone or anything from Millport “nice.” “Oh, Coach,” he says, tone mocking, “If he was nice, he wouldn’t be of any use to us, would he?” Andrew’s right, of course. The only reason Kevin was interested in Neil in the first place was that he played like someone was holding a loaded gun to the back of his head. 

Wymack pinches the bridge of his nose, absolutely done with Andrew’s shit. “He’s no use to us if you break him.” 

Yeah, well, Andrew had kept him there so Wymack could convince him further. He was doing his job, it’s Wymack’s fault for assuming he’d be polite about it. “You’d rather I let him go? Put a band-aid on him and he’ll be good as new.” Andrew hadn’t hit hard enough to break anything, he knows that much. Bruises are manageable.

Neil, still on the floor, sharply inhales. Andrew’s souped-up brain latches on to the movement, tracking to his face and _oh. Shit._

Abram stares up at him from the ground, eyes wide with the same recognition that Andrew knows is mirrored in his own face. His hair is longer, and almost black, and his eyes are brown, not gray, but Andrew pressed his fingers to those cheekbones and remembers those chapped lips like the last time he kissed Abram was a minute ago, instead of three years.

Andrew lets himself giggle a bit, flicking two fingers from his temple in a mock salute. “Better luck next time.” 

_At least this year will be plenty interesting,_ Andrew thinks. 

_In the summer silence_

_I was getting violent_

_In the summer silence_

_I was doing nothing_


	2. i pull, they stretch infinitely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Abram's turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi this is like 1.7k of me loving neil too much and being too dedicated to the aesthetic
> 
> ykno how i said neil's POV would be up "soon?" yeah it's soon even though its been like what 17 hours?? sorry for the wait lmao
> 
> but yeah this is faster i just wanted neil's pov on this one heehee

Alex -  _ no, he’s Chris now - _ hates spending summers further south. He has to wear long sleeves to cover up his bruises and scars and the stagnant humidity of South Carolina summers is enough that he would peel his skin off, if he didn’t already know what that felt like. 

They’re in an in-between state right now, needing new passports to get to Germany and identities to assume once they arrive. Unfortunately, the Malcolm siblings got to their last contact, so Chris’ mom is meeting someone new in Columbia. It’s going to take a few weeks, which means Lola will be drawing ever-closer, but it’s a few weeks to breathe, to let bruises heal.

Mary -  _ no, she’s Beth - _ is too paranoid to stay at a motel or find an apartment, since they’re just outside the range of the Butcher’s territory. Instead, they find an industrial park of abandoned warehouses. Staying in them means sacrificing all hope of air conditioning, but the nights are cool enough and it’s a roof over their head. So Chris settles. 

Beth leaves Chris with strict instructions to  _ stay fucking put _ before she goes to meet the guy who will get them passports _ , _ so Chris sets to reorganizing his duffle bag, mentally running over the numbers of his emergency contacts and where their stashes of money are. He must have not washed his hair thoroughly enough when he dyed it because as his scalp sweats, it starts to tingle and burn. Eh. He’s dealt with much worse. 

He’s so caught up in his head, so convinced that no one would think to look in an old warehouse’s office, that when he turns around he nearly jumps out of his skin.

There’s a boy. He looks to be around Chris’ age, judging by his muscle and the faint blond hair he can see on his upper lip, but the kid is shorter than him, which is saying a lot. Chris doesn’t have his knives, they’re packed in his duffel, because he’s _stupid_ and thought he was safe when he’s _never safe,_ _someone’s always after him._ He just needs to know who, specifically. 

“Who sent you?” The kid might’ve been paid off by Lola, the sneaky bitch, to draw him out so she can sink her claws into Chris and never let go. The kid just looks confused. He leans against the doorframe and cocks an eyebrow at Chris.

“No one.” Either he’s a very good liar or he’s telling the truth and in a stroke of good grace from the universe, Chris has gotten lucky and this guy is telling the truth. “I’ve been coming here for the past month, which begs the question, what are you doing here? I do not know who you are, I do not care, I’m not working for anybody. As far as people go, I am comically unimportant.”

Hm. What a nice life that must be, to be ignored, passed over, to just be  _ nobody. _ Chris tries so hard with his mom but somehow, they keep getting found. If Lola was trying to get the drop on him, she’d be in here already and it would be too late. That’s one of her fatal flaws - she’s impatient as all hell. 

So either he’s already dead, or this is a potential person that Chris can spend some time with. That would be nice. He hasn’t had a friend since… since before they started running. So he bites the bullet. “My mom’s going to be back soon. You need to go.” If there’s one thing he’s absolutely sure of, it’s that his mom will beat him black and blue if she finds out he even spoke to someone other than her. 

“Okay.” His voice is toneless, not uncaring, not irritated, just neutral. 

“You can come back tomorrow afternoon,” Chris says quickly. “My mom’s going to be out all day.” He doesn’t want to lose his only shot at making a friend his age. 

“See you then, mystery boy.” Normally, Chris feels safe when people don’t know his name, it’s another way he can be identified and tracked, but this boy looks like he could fade into the background at any time, becoming a hazy afterimage of a person, and so Chris throws it out there.

“It’s Chris.”

“Andrew.” The guy gestures to himself. As he walks away, he says, “See you tomorrow, Chris.”

When he says it, Chris can almost believe it’s a real name, instead of the latest iteration of the lie that is his existence. 

It’s easy, being with Andrew. He sets his watch so that Chris can get back to the warehouse in time and accepts silences and refusals to answer questions. It’s been a long time since Chris had someone he felt like he could trust, besides his mom. 

Chris lets himself forget that he’s on the run, lets himself forget everything he’s faced in the past, and lets himself be an awkward teenager, scuffing his shoes on cement and speculating about the apocalypse.

Slowly, they open up to each other. Chris isn’t the only one who’s wary in their dynamic. Andrew seems to chew on his words before tossing them out into the void and Chris almost-unconsciously weighs how dangerous each answer is to give.

But one day, he gives Andrew a name. He hasn’t been called Abram in so long, hasn’t been himself for so long that he barely remembers his own personality anymore. But he lets himself relearn.

And he lets himself watch. Andrew is pretty, he supposes, if you’re into stony silences and piercing hazel eyes. Sometimes, Andrew will tip his head back in the sun and something will catch in Abram’s chest, something his mother tried to beat out of him in Canada, and it’s  _ dangerous. _ He wants to get close to Andrew, see what makes him tick, learn how to take his breath away. 

But he can’t. Because he’s in South Carolina, he’s going to be gone in a few weeks, he can’t have anything tying him down or give anyone a reason to remember him. 

He tells Andrew that he is no one, that his destiny is to die, and in return, Andrew tells him that he is planning to kill the woman who gave birth to him just to have a chance at saving his twin brother. And Abram’s soul aches because for the first time in forever, he wants something good for someone else. 

And then Andrew asks to kiss him and Abram watches him shut down without an answer and this may be his one chance so he just says  _ okay. _

He braces for it to be like Montreal, can almost taste that girl’s sickly-sweet lip gloss, but then Andrew’s lips are on his and he’s pushing forward with a delicate intensity, the oxymoron that he is. 

And Abram can’t breathe because he needs this to last as long as possible and he  _ knows _ that this is how it’s supposed to be. And then he’s got a lap full of Andrew and he knows for a brief moment what having the sun in your arms is like, it’s so good.

July flies by, and they melt like the tar patching up the pavement outside, slow and sticky and for once, Abram doesn’t really mind the heat. 

Then Andrew says it’s nothing but he’s lying through his teeth and Abram will accept it being nothing, just like he is, if it means they won’t stop. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get that choice. His mom wakes him up in the middle of the night, pushing him and his belongings into a nondescript Honda, putting them on the road up to Vermont, where they’re flying out of to Germany. While she’s busy double-checking that they have everything they need, Abram scratches out a note to Andrew. It’s a shitty apology, but it’s better than nothing. 

When they step off the plane in Germany, Chris becomes Stefan, and he forces himself to push Andrew out of his mind. Except he gave Andrew  _ Abram, _ the truest part of himself, so he clings on to memories of South Carolina sun and hazy air and a boy who was too good to be true.

Then he can’t anymore, because they’re back in the States and then Seattle happens and then he becomes  _ Neil _ and for the first time ever, he is truly alone. And he gives up, just a little. Running is exhausting, he can’t do it forever. Might as well make the most of his last few years alive. 

The heat in Arizona is different to South Carolina, and it helps Neil keep his head on straight. 

Having consistent access to the internet through Millport’s library is a blessing. He’d heard bits and pieces about how Kevin Day left Evermore for the Foxes, and as he’s reading through a recap of the Foxes’ fall season, he sees a face in the lineup that is more familiar than Neil’s own. 

And he falls down a rabbit hole because Andrew’s eyes were hooded and calm, not wide and manic, and he secretly feels a little-too-satisfied when he reads about their mother’s “accident,” because it means Andrew followed through with his plan. And he’s happy for Andrew because at least one of them has a shot at a future. 

He’s also easily the best goalkeeper in the NCAA, which is how Neil passes off his obsession when the librarian looks over his shoulder. He has a feeling, though, that if he’d brought up Exy with Andrew he would’ve gotten the cold shoulder for a week. Well, he was busy with other things then anyway.

And then the Millport Dingoes lose two games before state finals, and Neil is watching his cigarette burn down, letting himself mourn if only for a moment. 

Then all of a sudden Wymack is offering him a future and it’s hope and a death sentence wrapped up with a bow and he  _ can’t _ because if he goes with Kevin he’ll just die sooner and he refuses to bring his demons close enough to hurt Andrew.

And then there’s a racquet in his stomach and a pair of gleaming hazel eyes above him, flashing with recognition and remembering a summer full of sticky kisses and gravel under their feet and it never really was a choice at all.

There’s nothing left for him in Arizona, but there’s nothing for him to run to, and he’s indulged himself this long.

Andrew was going to be the death of him anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi wasnt that fun?? yeah!!
> 
> i made coffee cake and started working on this chapter while it was baking and i haven't STOPPED working so i haven't been able to try it,,, the things i sacrifice for fic,,,
> 
> tag yourself im this fic being an excuse for me to hate the summer because east coast humidity is going to Kill Me
> 
> if u liked it leave some kudos they make me happy, comments make me feel real nice, come vibe with me on Tumblr @fxcrt i am so down to explore this au
> 
> stay safe, wear a mask (miss rona is still out and about), take care of urself okie bye lovelies

**Author's Note:**

> wowza me?? writing moderately canon-compliant stuff? who would've THOUGHT  
> and i have no clue of columbias layout i know there's a state park there but that's from google maps hahaha I've never even been to south Carolina so we'll just ignore the fact that this setting likely doesn't exist  
> anyway that was a Fucking Ride to write and i really hope i conveyed the wackass dreamy aesthetic i get from mama's gun in this. i feel like that song is full of dust motes and sepia tones and i tried to get that vibe into this fic!  
> on the topic of dreamy stuff watch out for glass animals dreamland dropping august 7th this is a shameless plug i love them so much  
> love how my authors notes are literally just music recs at this point but I'm too lazy to make playlists  
> also if the dialogue in this is wack and different - i am working on dialogue tags and conversations in general! i can describe settings and action for years and years but dialogue is my FUCKING kryptonite and so I'm pushing my limits babe  
> this fic was also fun to push myself in a different dynamic than Neil and Andrew normally have - they're teenagers here and so i couldn't fall back on my (robust) ideas of how they interact and touch each other!  
> wow i am admitting i like challenges in my fucking recreational activities who the FUCK am i
> 
> anyways if you enjoyed leave some kudos, drop a comment if you're feeling spicy  
> gnight lovelies


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